She could no longer read or listen to records or even concentrate on television, Red having rendered her utterly deficient in resources. Anticipating a long wait, she had poured herself a second vodka and tonic and wandered off into the garden. She was wearing the silk pyjamas Red had given her in Singapore. The stars littered the sky like confetti. Oh God, would Red ever marry her now? But to her amazement he was home in tearing spirits just before ten.
‘Hi, baby!’ He held out his arms.
Perdita bolted into them, frantically covering his face with kisses before finding his mouth.
‘I’ve been so unhappy,’ she wailed when he finally let her go. ‘I thought you’d never forgive me. I love you. I love you.’
‘Good.’ Red patted her cheek. ‘And I’ll love you back if you’ll stop throwing wobblies. You know how scenes bore me. Fix me a drink, sweetheart. I’ve been on diet Coke all evening to impress Brad Dillon.’
Brad Dillon, the American team manager, formerly a Brigadier in the US Marines, a hero both in Korea and Vietnam, was, despite his macho exterior, a strict teetotaller and expected similar temperance from his team.
‘How was the team meeting?’ Joyously Perdita kissed the whisky bottle before splashing it into a glass.
‘Acrimonious. Dad’s flown in Juan O’Brien to advise the team. He had a row with Angel. The Brits are in a panic. They don’t want Angel at Number Three in case he murders Drew Benedict at Number Two so there was talk of him playing Number Two and me going to Number One. Christ, the humiliation. I threatened to quit, so I’m playing Three and Angel One. The Brits have been absolute dickheads and lent us some seriously good ponies. Americans would never do that. It’s crazy, like giving the Viet Cong a lot of B52s. I’ve been trying them out all afternoon.’ He half-emptied his glass in one gulp. ‘That’s better.’
For a second he appraised Perdita’s back view as she poured herself a third vodka.
‘You’re losing too much weight.’
Moving forward, feeling for her breasts, he nuzzled the back of her neck. Perdita felt her stomach curling and missed the glass with the vodka bottle, wiping it off the polished table with her sleeve.
‘Your game may be off,’ murmured Red into her hair, ‘but you’re ace at making ponies.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Here’s the good news. Brad Dillon and Juan want me to play Tero tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Tero!’ Utterly outraged, Perdita tried to swing round, but, unwilling to meet her eyes, Red held on to her.
‘She’s hardly had a man on her back since Argentina. You know how fucked up she was when I went off to Singapore. She’ll be terrified.’
‘Terofied,’ mocked Red. ‘She went like a dream. I played a chukka on her this afternoon. Juan reckons she’ll do two chukkas. We saw a video of the Gold Cup this afternoon,’ he went on, trying to railroad her into submission. ‘Juan said I don’t mark closely enough. So, I’m not going to let you out of my sight in future.’ His hand slid down to her groin. ‘Let’s go to bed.’
‘Don’t get off the subject and don’t soft-soap me,’ stormed Perdita. ‘You’re
‘Don’t be so unBritish,’ teased Red, who was fast losing his conciliatory manner.
‘I am not letting you ride her in the
Letting her go, he reached for his drink, then picked up her left hand and examined the huge sapphire.
‘After all I’ve done for you,’ he said softly. ‘And you deny me seven or at most fifteen minutes, when I’m playing for my country.’
‘Tero’s different,’ stammered Perdita.
‘You bet she is. With me on her back she’s a good pony.’
‘You bastard,’ yelled Perdita, drink fuelling her aggression, then jumped at the baying of Bart’s Rottweilers. ‘Oh, fucking hell, Chessie’s back.’
‘Look what I’ve got for your father’s big five O,’ said Chessie, sauntering into the room. Pulling the portrait out of its wrapping paper, she propped it up on a green and white striped sofa.
Red whistled. ‘Talk about a glow job. You look angelic, but kinda overdressed. Why didn’t you take off my father’s wedding ring while you were about it?’
‘Oh, shut up,’ said Chessie, but not unamiably. Perdita’s hostility, however, could have frozen bread straight from the oven.
‘My mother painted that,’ she hissed. ‘That’s our sitting-room sofa.’
‘Needs re-upholstering, like your mother,’ said Chessie. ‘My cheque should help.’
‘It’s a bloody conspiracy. How did you get on to her? I bet she wrote smarming to you. What’s she been saying about me?’
Chessie looked at her meditatively.
‘She misses you,’ she said. ‘I thought she was rather a nice old thing. Quite charming really.’
‘Good at charming snakes like you.’
‘Ay, yay, yay.’ Chessie’s eyes widened. ‘What’s got into her?’ she said, turning to Red. ‘Obviously not you, or she wouldn’t be so bad-tempered.’
‘Red wants to ride Tero in the International.
‘That’s great,’ said Chessie. ‘People fall over themselves to lend ponies for the International. You’ll sell her for three times as much afterwards, particularly with Red on her back, and, just think, the whole world will be watching her.’
68
The whole polo world – or rather 27,000 of them – gathered at the Guards Club next day for the Cartier International, the ritziest event in the polo calendar. The blustery weather seemed to be reflecting the tensions of the two teams. Clouds raced across the sky as a warm but frenzied south-west wind whipped off panamas, murdered hairstyles, stripped the petals from the red roses clambering up the clubhouse and fretted the fleet of hospitality tents that lined the pitch like yachts in a regatta. All morning, so their employers could get plastered, chauffeurs, driving everything from Minis to Rollers, edged into the parking lot where picnickers consumed vast quantities of quiche, smoked salmon and chicken drumsticks and drank Pimm’s out of paper cups.
Only the jade-green statue of Prince Albert on his splendid charger gazed bleakly northwards, away from such manic guzzling and later from the play, as if he were blocking some distant shot.
Angel escaped into one of the lavatories in the players’ changing rooms, so no-one could muddle him with more advice. He was outraged that Guards Club officials, themselves outraged that the Yanks had put him in their team, had insisted on frisking him on arrival. He was livid he was playing Number One. What chance would he have of scoring with the ground drying unevenly and the wind whisking the ball in every direction? His heart blackened in hatred against Drew, the enemy, whom he now suspected of cuckolding him. How could he not kill him? He was about to play for a country belonging to a wife who had deserted him, against a country he loathed. He had spent last night painting a white banner with the words ‘The Falklands Belong to Argentina’, which he had smuggled in with the tack and intended to brandish during the presentation.
Perdita, even more miserable and isolated, huddled in the stands next to the Royal Box. She wore dark glasses to hide her reddened eyes and the fact that there was no sun in the sky or in her life. After rowing with Red all night, terrified of losing him, she’d let him ride Tero. Now he’d banished her from the pony lines.
‘You screwed my sleep. I don’t want you hanging around dispensing gratuitous advice.’
The wind was taking everyone’s skirts over their heads. Girls with good legs seemed less embarrassed, reflected Perdita. She tipped Angel’s sombrero further over her nose for there, arriving with Bas, were Rupert and Taggie. Taggie seemed to have solved the force ten problem by wearing a sand-coloured suit with shorts instead of
